Flying Without Wings
by Mummyluvr
Summary: Even though Cas has Fallen, he hasn’t lost his wings. Dean can still feel them, still trace the contours of the feathers. And when he wakes up next to his angel, it feels like flying. Dean/Cas.


**Title:** Flying Without Wings  
**Summary:** Even though Cas has Fallen, he hasn't lost his wings. Dean can still feel them, still trace the contours of the feathers. And when he wakes up next to his angel, it feels like flying.  
**Rating:** PG  
**A/N:** Written for ladyyueh, who bought me in Sweet Charity and requested a fic for darksilvercat. Slow, sleepy early morning sex? Fluff? I tried. I hope you both enjoy it!  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own them. Or the show. Or the concept of Grace trees (like I'd claim that!). Please don't sue me.

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Flying Without Wings

The tattoo is still new to him. He traces it slowly with his fingers, skin lightly pressed to ink, trying not to wake the sleeper.

It isn't a necessary tattoo, not like the first one. The first one was a precaution, common nowadays among the hordes of teenage girls following their gospel. It was stylish and sleek. It was functional.

He'd been surprised at the success of the gospel. It had been picked up again, this time by a bigger publisher, and it was all there now. From Lazarus' rising, to Lucifer's second fall.

That was where it had stopped. With the End. The final battle. It hadn't gone any further, everything else becoming apocrypha as the world spun on and the importance of their family was lost.

They were just people now. Normal, everyday people.

His fingers keep moving over the ink as his mouth twists into a small smile.

It's a beautiful tattoo, bought with the first bit of money earned, and etched forever into skin that should no longer possess the pattern. That's why he loves it. It's a statement. A testament to what was. A sign of moving on.

It stretches across a pale back. Simple black ink cutting lines that mean so much. Lines that tell more of a story than any anti-possession charm possibly could.

This one, for instance, the long one currently under his index finger. It curves and bows. It changes swiftly, like time. Like emotion. Feelings of confusion and contempt turning slowly to lust and love. Making the markings possible.

And this, the one he's touching now, his fingers dancing deftly over the ink. It looks so real. Shadowed like the past, but vibrant like the future. Easily recognizable and oh, so beautiful.

He places a kiss between shoulder blades, between the two patterns that are really one. Two things that become one. The story of his life lately.

His partner stirs, rolling slightly to look at him. Both smile.

He'd told the other man, once the bandages had been removed, the redness disappeared, and the skin finished peeling, what he thought. It was beautiful. Real and sweet and perfect. Contrasting sharply with the ugly black marks on both their chests.

It was good.

"Morning," he whispers, fingers still dancing over marked skin. "Sorry I woke you."

A sigh. "You didn't." Shoulders roll, muscles flexing, and he can almost hear the familiar sound of wing beats. The man rolls fully, his back hidden from view by sheets, and Dean can't help but frown. "You really like it, don't you?"

The hunter nods. "Yeah. It suits you."

A smile graces the angel's face, small and sad. "Not so much anymore."

The tone of his voice does something to Dean, hurts him in a way that it shouldn't. There's sadness there, depression, a sense of failure that Dean can relate to far too easily. He leans in and takes the other's man's lips with his own, savoring the slow kiss, knowing as he does how close he came to losing everything, how Cas came through for him in the end.

"I still see 'em," he whispers into parted lips. His eyes close. "They're beautiful." And they are. Shadows against a dark wall replaced by lines in skin that Dean explores each night and every morning, mapping the shape of feathers with fingers, with lips, with tongue. They're burnt into his memory, burnt like whispered conversations about worth and need and love. Burnt like the tree that seemingly sprouted overnight in an Illinois field, ensuring that he would never be alone again.

Castiel's choice. Reflected in the angel's eyes, carved into his back. A vial of ashes around his neck and the promise of Heaven on earth for them both.

Lips move steadily lower, ghosting short breaths, whispers of reassurance and thanks across warm skin. Chin and throat and collar bone. Settling over the thick lines of protection visible through layers of skin as Dean's hand snaked lower, running over a slim chest and soft stomach.

A hand wraps around him, stroking slowly across his back, his neck, ruffling hair. Dean's considered another tattoo, one similar to the mark he finds so fascinating on the angel's body. He doesn't deserve wings, though. He knows this in the same way that he knows why Castiel fell, knows why they keep running, why he hasn't seen his brother in months.

He has a death warrant on his head. One that Heaven is incredibly intent upon serving, one that his angel was supposed to carry out.

Cas couldn't do it. He'd faltered, had fallen, and had saved the hunter one last time. They were running, and it was only a matter of time before they would be caught.

Dean tries not to dwell on that. He focuses instead on the way that Castiel arches up off the bed, his name on the angel's lips. He drags himself back up the prone body and retakes the soft lips, praying for a small reprieve.

"I won't let you go," Cas whispers as he tries to pull back. They turn slightly, falling onto their sides, and if Dean really looks, he can see the outlines of wings on the other man's back. "I promise."

It's a promise he knows the other will keep. And that's all that matters.

He finds himself on his back, staring up into blue eyes. He knows what it means and nods. A mouth is on his, hand fumbling over the pile of things on the bedside table, searching. Dean's hand snakes up to Castiel's back, tracing feathers, the patterns memorized.

He's confident. Sure. In love.

Nothing can touch them if they won't let it. For the first time in his life, Dean feels truly safe.

Two become one with a grunt and a growl. A vial of ash meets tarnished brass as skin and lives collide. And under his fingers, the tattoo feels softer. Feels lighter. If he closes his eyes, gives himself to the feelings, Dean can almost swear he's flying.


End file.
